5 – number of days this week Henry or I have seen a doctor
6 – number of waiting rooms I’ve waited in since Monday morning. Add the one on Friday and you get 7.
13 – number of days I’ve now been dealing with a rash of unknown origin or diagnosis.
5 – number of different diagnoses for the rash on my body. It’s been shingles, staph, a bug bite, a fungus, contact dermatitis…
7 – number of shots Henry had to drain what looked like aliens out of an infected boil
365,397 – times I wanted to die on Wednesday
28,967 – times I wet my pants while vomiting on Wednesday
28,967 – times I didn’t care about said wetting of pants because of the 365,397 times I wanted to die
6 – number of hours spent at the ER
3 – number of sticks it took for the nurse at the ER to run an IV
2 – number of bags of fluid shoved in my veins in the ER
0 – sadly, the number of bags of vodka shoved in my veins in the ER
2 – number of complete blood panels run on me
4 – number of prescriptions I’ve filled and tried
3 – number of people in this house who are dying for this week to be over
1 – number of biopsies done on said rash by the bitchy yankee PA who made me feel like an absolute asshole for not having changed ANYthing I’ve done for the last 2 weeks. She couldn’t believe I hadn’t switched shampoo, detergent, or soap in TWO WHOLE WEEKS. What?
1 – also the number of HOLES I now have on my rash on my stomach
12 – number of Krispy Kreme doughnuts I bought on my way home from the last doctor’s appointment today
I’m fine. I’m alive. Henry’s fine. He’s alive. Nothing is horribly wrong with either of us. Just one of those weeks that started off at the tippy top of the hill and rooooooolllled down swiftly.